A
well-developed weakness in a man has often been turned into glitterin'
gold. Does he drink?"

"Let's save time," I says. "Hector don't know whether whiskey and beer
is drinks, or the battery for to-day's game. He couldn't tell you
offhand whether tobacco was a thing to chew and smoke or the latest fox
trot. The only woman he ever met twice was his mother, and he thinks
sayin' 'Darnation!' in earnest is the same as homocide. His only love
is baseball and his only weakness is his stomach!"

"Aha!" says Alex. "I knew we'd get at it! He's fond of food, eh?"

"Fond of it?" I says. "Why, this guy can do more things with a steak
than Edison can do with a pint of electricity! He took me to a dinner
he cooked himself one night and the only thing I recognized on the
table was the water. Everything was fixed up after his own recipes and
at the drop of a hat he can tell you how many of them calories and
proteins they is in a pea!"

"That's enough!" hollers Alex. "He's as good as over right now! He
simply picked the wrong trade when he took up baseball, and I'll get
him a job as chef in one of the famous hotels so--"

"Don't make me laugh!" I cuts him off. "Would I of bet you, if it was
as easy as that? They ain't a chance on earth--I thought of that years
ago. Hector wouldn't boil water for money--he only cooks that stuff up
for himself. He--"

"A true artist, eh?" says Alex, kinda thoughtful. "That makes it all
the better! Bring him up for dinner to-morrow night and let me study
him. In a week I'll collect that little bet from you and then I'll be
ready to take on the next case."

"You certainly stand well with yourself, don't you?" I sneers. "Well,
lemme give you a little tip. Don't try to get that bird to give up
baseball, because they ain't a Chinaman's chance of that! The only
chance you got is to put him over as a ball player, and if _you_ can do
_that_, I can sell electric fans to the Esquimaux!"

"Bring him up to-morrow night," says Alex, grinnin' like a wolf. "This
looks like a cinch to me!"

I went to Hector in the clubhouse the next afternoon. He had had a
hard day playin' the White Sox--from the bench.

"Where are you goin' to-night?" I asks him.

He flushes up a bit.

"Well, Mac," he says, "I have finally found a joint where they know how
to cook 'em without abusin' 'em and I was figurin' on goin' there
first, so--"

"Cook what?" I butts in.

"Alligator pears!" he says. "